


Stalking

by the_ghostwriter96



Category: Trollhunters (Cartoon)
Genre: Creepy, Disturbing, M/M, Stalking, Uncomfortable Moments, rationalizing bad things, stalker!Walter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-08
Updated: 2018-11-08
Packaged: 2019-08-20 12:11:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16555526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ghostwriter96/pseuds/the_ghostwriter96
Summary: Human AU, basically just a drabble of Walter's descent into stalking Jim.





	Stalking

**Author's Note:**

> This is weird, read at your own risk.

It started out so innocently. He was just… my favorite student. I’d find myself smiling when he’d raise his hand in class, I’d greet him personally when he walked through the door, I’d find excuses to make small talk with him after class. About his essays, or his homework. The change was gradual. Slow. Natural. Instead of school, we’d talk about his home life. We’d talk about his stressors, why he wasn’t smiling so much that day, even who his friends were. I was interested in it all. Maybe too interested. I don’t know when the line was crossed, or when my interest became so- inappropriate. I just know that it was slow. Slow enough that I didn’t realize it, at first. I didn’t realize what I was doing.

I wanted to know more about him. That was all. I just wanted to know more about him, more about his life, more about his family. Or, I suppose, his mother; he had told me that his father had left when he was young, and he was an only child. When I called her and arranged to meet, I didn’t expect things to go in the direction that they did. I was intrigued by the idea of becoming a part of her life… so I thought. She fell quickly for my charms, and it wasn’t long before I was in their home on a near-frequent basis. It wasn’t long before I caught on that Jim was uncomfortable with this arrangement, though maybe not /unhappy/. It /was/ long before I realized that it wasn’t /her/ life I was interested in becoming a part of. It was Jim’s.

I was using her to get to him.

He stopped speaking to me after class, eventually. He was, I assume, afraid that I was so close to his mother now- would I tell her the things he said to me? A natural line of thought, and so /very/ Jim, so I wasn’t offended. I didn’t panic too badly. Instead I kept coming around for dinner. I would ask him about his day over the meals, in between conversations with his mother. I waited, once, until she was in the kitchen to let him know that I cared for him. I didn’t cross any lines; I told him that he could come to me, and what was said would stay between us. His discomfort with the seriousness of the conversation was clear, but his relief was, too, and the smile on his face made me feel lighter than air. I think it was at that point that I realized;

It was him, not her.

Even still, I couldn’t stop myself from using her, that way. I couldn’t stop myself from getting closer to her, in an effort to get closer to him. I wouldn’t take things too far- she mentioned staying overnight, a few times. I declined. I didn’t trust myself, once I realized my interest. Being there, so close to where he’d sleep. Where he would change, where he would shower, where he felt the most comfortable… it wasn’t a good idea, simple as that. I drew the line in the sand, there. I could have that interest in him, I could spend some evenings at his home, I could go out with Barbara and I could have her come over. I would /not/ let myself sully his home, his safe space. I would not.

I didn’t love her. The nights that she would spend at my home under the guise of staying overnight at work almost weren’t worth it. The dates weren’t so bad, she was a good person. Interesting, intelligent. She could hold a decent conversation. The kisses were- bland. I felt nothing, no spark. My thoughts always drifted back to /him/. Even in bed, I would wonder how his hands would feel, instead of hers. I would wonder how his mouth would feel, how he would look- I couldn’t help but wonder. But they were only thoughts. Just thoughts.

Until they weren’t.

Until I was outside his house while his mother was at work, looking in the windows. Until I found a way onto the roof at night, to look into Jim’s window as he slept. They weren’t thoughts anymore. I didn’t have to wonder anymore, how he’d look after a shower, how he’d look sprawled out on his bed, touching himself. I didn’t have to wonder, because I had seen. It’s lost on me, even now, how I was never caught. How no one ever saw me, how no one called the police, how Jim never turned too suddenly for me to hide. He never even looked at his window. Not once. He felt safe there. Safe enough that he didn’t have to check the window. Safe enough that he didn’t have to close the curtains. And I betrayed that, I ruined that, sullied it. He didn’t even know.

It wasn’t (just) love. It wasn’t even (just) lust. It was /obsession/. I wanted him more than I had ever wanted anything. I had never been so intrigued, so captivated, so enthralled by a person before. I knew, morally, it was wrong. I knew that legally, it was wrong. It was wrong on every level, but I told myself that maybe, if I just looked, if I didn’t touch, it would be okay. It wasn’t that bad. It wasn’t hurting anyone. So long as I didn’t touch- and I didn’t touch. At school, when we’d go out to dinner, at his home, at /my/ home, I kept my hands to myself. Or rather, on Barbara; slipping my fingers into hers, keeping a hand on the small of her back or an arm behind her shoulders while we watched a movie or lounged in the living room. Though my hands were on Barbara, my thoughts were on /him/. Jim. My Young Atlas.

How long would it last, though? He was so many things; headstrong, confident, patient, adaptable, lively and oh, so very interesting. Each passing day made it all the more difficult to keep from breaking my own, silent rule of /no touching/. I knew better than to think he would be receptive. He didn’t, /couldn’t/ feel the same. I knew that he didn’t wonder about me, the way that I did him. I knew that he didn’t want me, the way that I wanted him. I didn’t let myself think so, even in dreams. It was beyond reach, beyond reality, as much as I wanted that. As much as I /craved/ it.

He broke the rule first. Downright bashful, he wrapped his arms around my waist before I left one evening. I stood there, frozen at first, and made eye-contact with Barbara; she thought that I was surprised, but she smiled, and I smiled, and she never realized that I was making certain that she hadn’t seen the way my breath caught in my throat, or heard the way my heart pounded in my chest. I rested a hand on his head, and one between his shoulders. A brief, innocuous touch. He kept his eyes averted when he pulled away, but not out of suspicion- he was embarrassed. It was endearing. Cute. The blush on his cheeks downright /alluring/, and I wanted to make him flush for a completely different reason.

I didn’t, though. I couldn’t, not then, not there. Not in front of his mother, and likely not ever. And so, I left, with nothing but a bowl of leftovers (that /he/ had made, and that I would savor) and the tingling feeling that his touch had left behind. The shadowed weight of his body, pressed against mine.

From there on, there were more touches, like those. Occasional hugs, in the privacy of his or my home. I let myself go as far as to muss his hair. To touch his shoulder as he walked by or to brush my fingers against his as he handed in his schoolwork. I was breaking the rule that I had set for myself, but he broke it first. I rationalized it that way; I wasn’t touching him in a bad way. I wasn’t touching him in a harmful way. It was innocent, like the hug, and it wasn’t harmful. It wasn’t hurting him. It was okay, and besides that, he crossed the line first. Somehow, in my mind, that made it okay.

It started out so innocently, at first. And then it spiraled into something insidious.

I was still watching him at night. I had seen him in states that he would never have consented to. Private moments, moments that were not meant for me but that I saw anyway. It was a gradual, natural, insidious change that brought me to this moment here; inside his bedroom, by the window that he didn’t bother to lock- and why would he? It was on the second floor- watching him from across the room as he slept soundly in the dark.


End file.
